


struggle pitifully until the end and die

by aphoticdepths



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Guro, M/M, Noble Phantasms Don't Work That Way, Phantom is deformed because I'm not a fucking coward, because Emiyalter can't really think without it being in the style of a noir monologue, fucked to death, woundfucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-02 22:28:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14554878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphoticdepths/pseuds/aphoticdepths
Summary: A scene in Shinjuku turns out VERY differently, and EMIYA Alter vents some emotions.





	struggle pitifully until the end and die

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted Phantom to be nonconned, and somehow I decided this was the right scenario! Better than my other idea, though. Almost Weekly Santa Alter is sacred, and noncon during that would be evil.

Emiya looked down at the Phantom's body, barely held together as it was.

He'd held back. He could have killed him. But psychological warfare was important.

(And he needed it.)

He had done worse.

The others were watching, as he knelt down by Phantom. The berserker was in tatters-both clothes and flesh. His mask had fallen off and lay on the ground, exposing a skinless horror of a face. He was gasping like a fish on land, blood trickling from his mouth.

"Archer," he gasped in agony. "Why..."

In answer, he unzipped his pants.

Things proceeded as he'd expected. Phantom stared at him with...of all things, confusion mixed with fear and disgust, as if he'd pulled some sort of deadly fish out of his pants. Ritsuka threw herself at them, before being held back by Archer's clone.

"We can't handle them, Ritsuka," he hissed. "We just got through that fight, and he's fresh-Berserker's going to die anyway-we need to retreat-"

"No!" She struggled against him. "No-" But Moriarty had grabbed her arm and started to run. Quick for a man in his fifties.

The question was, would they still come into contact with Yan Qing? That was...no. He knew better than to pretend that it was anything to do with the Counter Force, anything to do with saving the world. He'd cast off being a hero long ago. This was the need, the sick, monstrous lust that had been ingrained into him by a cult leader, by the look of ecstasy and orgasm on her face as she slid a knife into her stomach, by the words of lust she'd crooned into his ear, by what she'd said before she died-

His cock was pulsing with need-just like it had been _then_. He didn't hate himself as much now-no, he did. It had just faded into a background hum. He knew damn well nothing really satisfied him. Nothing could, except...no. He wouldn't think about what could satisfy it. He wouldn't think about what was in the moment, either.

Phantom was trying to move himself back, but it was easy to hold him. Emiya considered where he could stick it in. He'd have to fuck his guts if he wanted to even get somewhere-trying to fuck one of the cuts in the limbs would just hit bone. He moved away the bloody tatters of his shirt and jacket, and Phantom's claws lunged for him with speed that was frankly impressive, considering he was bleeding out.

Emiya caught it, though, and grabbed it, bending it until he heard the crack of bone. Phantom made a small noise of agony, half a let-out breath and half a groan.

He shoved his cock in.

Phantom screamed, a hellish, almost-animal noise. (He hadn't screamed when Emiya fired at him-shock, perhaps.) He arced, hands scything at Emiya above him, his face a grimace-as much as he could see of it, with half of his face skinless and lipless-tears flowing down his cheeks.

God, it felt good.  So fucking good. Hot and wet and squishing around him, shaping itself to him, and he didn't even take it in, just thrust his hips into him like an animal in rut. This was what he was now, ever since _she_ got her fingers into him. A disgusting, filthy fucking animal.

Phantom was vomiting, his body barely holding together, and he didn't have the strength to aim his face away. Stinking bile splattered on the frills of his cravat, and that didn't even stop Emiya. His fingers ripped his pants down, grabbing on to his hips and bruising thin, pale skin with the intensity of their grip.

He felt the urge to taunt the dying man. "What the hell do you think of yourself?" he spat, each thrust shaking Phantom's thin body. "Serial killer, right? Impressive you could do that when you're this weak." When he said that, he felt a memory-a rich, seductive voice purring words that made him stiffen even as he fucked Phantom.

In response, the other man weakly coughed out a mixture of blood and vomit. He couldn't take solace even in the man being a killer. This was-an evil, beyond vile act-and even so, his hips didn't stop moving, fucking him brutally.

He needed this. _God_ , he needed this. Because of her, and her curse, and her shaping of him, and her wish. And because of his blood and organs, warm and yielding around his cock. Emiya's breathing was harsh in the deserted nightclub, broken dolls that used to be human surrounding him. Phantom seemed to have given up trying to fight back, and his hand was-reaching towards one? The one he'd sewed a scalp to.

"Christine," he gasped. Even Emiya knew how beautiful his voice was once-but now it was a desperate rasp, hoarse from screaming and retching, choked with pain, and nearly breathless. It was far from the first time Emiya had destroyed something beautiful. "Christi-"

And then his hand went limp, still stretching for that of a soulless doll. His right eye was too sunken for Emiya to read it right, but his red eye had the glassiness of death, and his body went lax around him and Emiya came with a shout, painting red flesh and black cloth and the few scraps of skin sickly to the point of looking green with his disgusting, sticky semen.

And he was still horny. He knew he was. When he was a different man and he had stood in a  building of people he killed in front of the corpse of Kiara Sesshouin and he had realized what he had done, what he had become, it had all started then.

Emiya breathed out, withdrawing himself from the body's abdomen. He looked down at them, a dead madman and a vessel that had been long dead.

He had long gone past justifying things to himself. Justice was dead. He did not pity his victims. He told himself that. He did not feel pity in itself, no. Some strange weight, maybe.

But perhaps he should clean up the corpse. He let it go and fully destroy him-a localized explosion, but one that would get rid of any evidence either way. Dignity in death, too late. Emiya turned to the door of the nightclub, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of how he would die. He knew it would be messy. A man who'd done what he'd done didn't die cleanly. Would it be worse than this? That was hard to say.

As he walked out, he trod on a mask of bandages and fabric beneath his foot.


End file.
